Lifts and slings are a big part of my life. Here’s a short course.
They are assistive devices to move people with limited mobility from one thing to another, such as a bed to a wheelchair, a wheelchair to a toilet or another chair, a wheelchair to a car, and so on. The sling goes underneath me and sort of gathers me up. It has straps that hook onto the arm of the lift, which can then raise me up or lower me down onto something else.
If you’re having trouble picturing this, think of the lift as a giant stork and me as a giant baby, bundled into the sling and hanging suspended from the bird’s beak, about to be delivered to expectant parents.
Every time I need to go to the bathroom, it involves four trips: from my chair to the bed to pull my clothes down, from the bed to the commode – a toilet on wheels, where I do my business (a somewhat miraculous feat considering the rigmarole I have to go through), from the commode back to the bed to pull my clothing up, and then back to my wheelchair again. It’s not the most dignified thing, especially when my sweet ass is hanging out.
A complete round-trip takes about 15 minutes, not including the time I wait for the workers to arrive in the first place, and then to return after I’m finished. (Usually, they don’t wait for me to finish. They answer other calls and return after I summon them again.) Sometimes, when they’re busy, the process takes as long as an hour.
Waiting for them is the most exasperating part of living here. It eats into the amount of free time I have considerably and frustrates me to no end. I’ve learned to be patient, accept the situation I’m in, and distract myself with “mental games” I’ve invented. Mindfulness a la Joy Manson. Even so, there are times when frustration invades my serenity and I rage at the poor workers, after which I always apologize because I know it’s not their fault and it’s “just one of those things.”
I’m supposed to sit upright in the sling and that’s when the ride is most comfortable. They struggle to get the sling under me evenly, which affects the way I sit when they set me down. If I land too far over on one side, it means I must work harder to maintain my balance. It can be exhausting. Sometimes I dangle sideways, or pirouette gracefully once or twice as the lift and I do the Hoyer dance. I get dizzy easily. When they get it horribly wrong, though, I’m almost laid out flat. The two straps that carry most of my weight, cross right up close and personal against my lady parts. Only the sling separates me from another painful rage.
Stork image belongs to Simply Baby Furniture.